LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 

Miss  Hosario  Curletti 


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littp://www.arcliive.org/details/bettertreasureOOandriala 


mn  LIBRARY 


I 


JHI:  BIvCTElC^TRIiASlJRE 


r  .&.'■ 


A 


f) 


/y  J 


WfTn  ILL' 

H.M  IKE 


MAftY  RAYMONb  SflimAN  ANbliEW^ 

AUTHOI^    OF 

THE.  PERrtCT  TRIBUTE. 


\  WfTn  fLLUSTI^TIONS  BY 


INDIANAPOLIS 

the:  5055s-mer[^ill  company 

PUBLISHERS 


? 

A 

^\ 


Copyright  1 908 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 

October 


^^ 


PRESS  OF 
BRAUNWORTH  &  CO- 
BOOKBINDERS   AND  PRINTERS 
BROOKLYN,   N.  Y. 


'^, 


^ 


mii  BIiT:FElC^TRIi/\SlJRE 


Tf^;^', 


HERE  were  thick  flurries  at  inter- 
vals  as  if  the  world  were  filled  with 
^  a  sudden  storm  of  white  feathers, 

but  no  weight  of  snow  fell ;  the  air  had 
a  sweet  coldness  as  one  inhaled  it,  yet 
was  as  mild  as  December  twenty-fourth 
might  be  and  not  be  pusillanimous, — a 
well-behaved  winter's   day;   there  was 


f/--] 


\  . 


oTHK  13IiT:FEl€STRI-:/\SURE    '* ' 


not  the  ghost  of  a  reason  why  the  1 105 
local  from  Barchester  should  be  two 
hours  late. 

The  handful  of  passengers  at  Blen- 
heim Junction  wandered  aimlessly, 
afraid  to  go  away  lest  the  belated  train 
should  make  up  time;  now  and  again 
they  drifted  together  and  exchanged 
pessimistic  surmises  as  to  any  one's 
chances  of  getting  anywhere  for  Christ- 
mas. The  shifting  human  atoms  might 
be  classified  as  four  bunches:  the  small- 
boy  bunch,  three  women  circling  about 
a  stolid  and  annoyed  boy;  the  tobacco 
bunch,  four  unshaven  men;  the  parson 
— black  of  clothes,  pallid,  yet  strong  of 
2 


THE  BIirrElti^TRi:/\SlJRE 


face — and  his  friend,  a  prosperous  busi- 
ness man  by  the  look  of  him ;  and,  the 
fourth  division,  a  solitary  individual. 
This  last  was  young,  and  so  strongly 
built  that  muscle  was  the  first  impres- 
sion on  looking  at  him.  His  listless 
movements  were  powerful,  his  face  was 
cast  in  a  virile  mold,  but  it  was  strength 
and  beauty  gone  wrong.  The  face  was 
lined  with  unhappiness;  the  eyes  were 
dull;  a  swinging  walk  lapsed  to  a 
lurch;  his  coat  collar  was  up  and  his 
hat  brim  down,  his  clothes  were  shabby. 
The  hypothetical  observer  would  have 
seen  that  the  man  avoided  with  some 
effort  the  clergyman  and  his  friend. 
3 


kj 


4 


g^Bl>r-:FElC(STRIi/\Sl^ 

As  they  came  toward  him  down  the 
long  platform,  walking  briskly  for 
warmth,  talking  earnestly  together,  he 
watched  them  from  under  his  shadow- 
ing hat-brim,  turned  his  back  as  they 
neared  him,  and  disappeared  behind 
the  station.  His  hands  in  the  pockets  of 
his  overcoat,  he  stared  out  at  the  fields 
with  resentful  eyes.  He  came  to  a  stop 
in  front  of  a  bench,  and,  dropping  into 
it,  drew  out  a  letter.  The  thin  envelope 
fell  open  as  if  read  often  before. 

"Dear  Carl,"  the  writing  ran,  "I  saw 
Peterson  two  days  ago  and  he  told  me 
you  were  playing  in  bad  luck.    There's 

4 


jmBtT>TElC^TRIii\S(^ 

an  opening  out  here  in  my  business  for 
a  person  who  knows  several  languages, 
and  you  came  to  my  mind.  Would  you 
care  to  take  it?  You  would  have  to  put 
up  a  thousand  or  two,  and  that,  beyond 
traveling  expenses,  would  be  all  the 
money  necessary.  I  think  you  would 
like  it.  The  business  is  going  to  be  a 
big  one,  and  we  are  making  money 
now.  There  is  plenty  of  work,  but 
plenty  of  play  also  of  the  kind  you're 
good  at — tennis  and  polo  and  that  sort. 
And  there's  the  certainty  of  a  fresh 
start  in  life  with  every  chance  of  a  solid 


career. 


I'm  sure  you  know  what  a  pleasure 
5 


0£ 

^W  ^ffil3!>rTEl€iSTRIi/\S(^ 

I    ^_^^  it  would  be  to  me,  because  it's  always 

fe  '  I  been  a  pleasure  to  be  with  you  since  the 

first  days  of  Groton.  Think  it  over  and 
send  me  a  line  by  New  Year's  so  I  may 
know  during  January.  I  repeat  that  I 
want  you  and  that  I  hope  you  may  care 


to  come." 


The   letter  was   dated   from   Hong 
Kong. 

''Care  to  come!"  The  man  flapped 
the  paper  with  a  gesture  of  despair,  and 
at  the  second  a  door  creaked  mourn- 
fully behind  him,  opened  half-way,  and 
the  clergyman's  clear-cut  speech 
sounded  through  it. 
6 


JHIi  BKCTElC^TRIiASURE 


"You  don't  mind  the  draft?"  the 
voice  asked.    "It's  close  in  here." 

The  man  outside,  the  letter  clasped 
against  his  knee,  did  not  stir ;  he  listened 
intently.  The  two  within  sat  down 
without  seeing  him,  back  to  back  with 
him,  the  wall  between.  Every  word 
they  spoke  came  out  to  him  distinctly. 

"Why  don't  you  put  that  bag  on  the 
floor?  You  hold  on  to  it  as  if  it  were 
treasure,"  the  pleasant,  easy  tones  of  the 
parson  continued. 

The  big  man's  answer  came  after  a 
second's  pause.  "It  is  treasure,"  he  said 
briefly. 

"Do  you  mean — Sidney,  you're  not 

7 


THIi  BFXTElC^TRIi/\SURE 


driving  home  alone  to-night  with  the 
men's  wages?" 

"No,  not  alone.  Tomlinson  meets 
me." 

"Tomlinson!  He's  nothing.  That  is 
— he's  a  good  coachman,  of  course,  but 
the  mildest  ruffian  could  do  up  Tom- 
linson with  one  hand.  A  great  protec- 
tion!" 

"I  don't  want  protection,"  the  slow 
voice  half-laughed.  "I  can  protect  my- 
self— and  Tomlinson." 

The  man  outside  could  all  but  see  the 
clergyman's  head  shake  disapproving- 

"I  don't  like  it.     It's  six  miles  and 
8 


JHIi  BlirailCiSTRIiASlJRE 


you'll  have  to  go  through  the  River 
Mills — the  other  road's  impassable. 
There's  a  bad  lot  of  roughs  there  just 
now.  Pat  O'Hara — who  used  to  be  my 
man-of-all-work — told  me  about  it  last 
week.  He's  working  now  on  the  Falls' 
bridge,  and  lives  two  miles  this  side. 
He  says  they're  genuine  desperadoes. 
It  will  be  known  that  you're  coming — • 
it's  always  known.  What  possessed  you 
to  go  back  at  night?" 

"Delayed,"  the  laconic  tones  an- 
swered. "A  meeting  of  the  board  of  di- 
rectors." 

"Well,  delay  a  bit  longer,  and  you 
may  save  time,"  the  clergyman  threw 

9 


V, 


iO: 


back.  "Don't  go  home  to-night,  Sid- 
ney— it's  really  unsafe." 

"Must  get  home  for  Christmas  morn- 
ing— couldn't  disappoint  the  baby," 
said  the  steady  voice. 

"I  know,"  the  clergyman  agreed. 
"I'm  in  the  same  box.  Yet,"  he  harked 
back,  "it's  taking  too  much  risk.  You 
have  no  right  to  run  such  a  risk.  How 
much  are  you  carrying?" 

"Three  thousand  dollars." 

The  man  outside  drew  a  sharp  breath 
as  if  the  distinct  words  had  hit  him. 
Three  thousand  dollars! 

The  clergyman  inside  repeated  them. 
"Three  thousand  dollars !  It's  too  much 
10 


mm  BliWElCiSTRIiASlJRE 


to  carry  after  dark  through  a  nest  of 
banditti." 

"Banditti!"  The  other's  tone  pro- 
tested. 

But  Doctor  Harding  persisted.  *'At 
least  leave  the  money  in  town." 

"Where?"  Maxwell  asked.  "The 
banks  are  closed.  The  men's  wages 
must  be  paid  the  twenty-sixth.  I'll  car- 
ry it  safe  enough — the  Maxwells  have 
carried  their  employees'  wages  to  Max- 
well Field  for  five  generations." 

The  clergyman's  reply  was  serious. 
"With  two  Maxwells  killed  to  discour- 
age the  practice,"  he  said.  There  was 
silence  for  a  moment.  Then,  "I  see 
ill 


J. 

^.    -^   V 


^\ 


what  can  be  done,"  the  older  man 
spoke.  ''Give  me  the  money.  I'll  take 
it  to  the  rectory  to-night,  and  to-mor- 
row you'll  all  be  over  to  service  and  you 
can  fetch  it  back.  How  is  that?" 
"You've  a  lonely  drive,  too." 
"Only  two  miles,"  said  Harding. 
"And  there's  no  danger  for  me.  No- 
body suspects  a  parson  of  money." 

Maxwell  considered,  hesitated.  "I 
think  I'll  accept  your  offer.  Doctor," 
he  said  at  last.  "Quarles,  the  manager, 
objects  to  my  landing  with  a  bag  which 
I  carry  carefully  myself,  as  I  must 
when  it's  loaded  this  way."  The  man 
outside,  strained  forward,  could  imag- 

12 


-< 
-^ 


ine  the  manufacturer's  hand  laid  on  the 
stout  bag  on  his  knee.  "My  dress-suit 
case  I  throw  at  somebody  to  be  put  into 
the  trap,  and  I  think  no  more  of  it,  but 
this  I  keep  by  me,  and  I'm  so  well 
known  about  the  country  that  they 
are  familiar  with  my  ways." 

The  confident  voice,  the  voice  of  a 
personage,  went  on,  but  the  shabby  fig- 
ure outside  relaxed,  shivering  a  bit, 
against  the  wall  of  the  station.  He  was 
thinking  fast,  but  his  listening  now  was 
less  careful ;  he  knew  the  rest;  his  data 
were  collected. 

There  was  a  whistle  down  the  track, 
and  a  wave  of  humanity  drew  together; 

13 


JHIi  Blvr-TEl€2STRIi/\Sl)RE 


the  train  pulled  in,  and  the  man  hover- 
ing in  the  background  waited  to  see 
Mr.  Maxwell  of  Maxwell  Field,  in  a 
fur-lined  ulster  with  its  collar  and  cuffs 
of  sable,  and  the  thin  clergyman  in  his 
overcoat  a  little  gray  at  the  seams,  enter 
a  car  together,  before  he  sprang  unno- 
ticed into  the  car  behind  them. 


'^   ^h  Is 


HE  two  big  children  and  their 
small  mother  sat  on  the  rug  before 
the  fire,  the  fire  being  an  especial 
luxury  for  Christmas  Eve.  The  nursery 
was  a  pleasant  room;  the  spendthrift 
firelight  washed  brightness  over  gay 
colors  of  coarse  stuffs,  over  cheap  prints 
of  fine  pictures,  over  the  whitewashed 
walls  and  the  peace  of  the  two  white 
beds  folded  back  for  the  night.  There 
was  a  homelike  atmosphere,  full  of  the 

15 


t'i'-^-" 


alert  leisure  of  a  house  where  much  is 
done.  The  children  leaned  close  against 
the  woman  between  them;  the  girl's 
hair  was  spread  on  her  mother's  shoul- 
ders, and  the  boy's  arm  was  around  her 
and  his  head  pressed  her  arm. 

"Say  The  Night  Before  Christmas 
again  mother,"  he  begged.  "You  prom- 
ised you'd  say  it  next." 

"No,  she  didn't,  Benny,"  objected  the 
girl.  "She  only  promised  she'd  say  it 
again;  she  hasn't  said  While  Shep- 
herds Watched  at  all  yet,  or  told  us  the 
story  of  the  beasts  on  Christmas  Eve. 
Have  you,  mother?" 

"My  knee,  Benny — you  weigh  a  ton, 
i6 


dear,"  remonstrated  the  mother,  push- 
ing a  heavy  foot.  "We'll  do  this, 
Alice.  Benny  knows  While  Shepherds 
Watched  as  well  as  I,  and  if  he'll  say 
it,  then  I'll  do  The  Night  Before 
Christmas,  and  the  story,  and  just  any- 
thing you  want." 

"I  like  your  saying  of  it,  mother, 
better  than  I  do  Benny's.    He  always 
makes   the   angels   talk   like   people," 
Alice  demurred. 
/;  But  the  boy,  undisturbed  by  criti- 

cism, began  at  once.    His  large  brown 
eyes  fixed  on  the  fire,  he  recited,  slowly 
|/^     and  conscientiously,  the  two-hundred- 
year-old  Christmas  carol : 
fe*^v>VJ|  17 


♦ 


"While  Shepherds  watched  their  flocks 
by  night 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  came  down 

And  glory  shone  around," 

the  reedy  voice  repeated,  and  a  listener  4 

might  have  understood  what  Alice  «  ** 
meant.  It  was  much  as  if  John  Jones 
had  met  William  Smith  and  mentioned 
to  him  a  matter  of  news  about  a  mutual 
friend,  an  angel.  But  to  the  woman 
who  listened  with  the  boy's  head  against 
her  shoulder,  the  incongruous  inflec-  i| 

tions  were  sweet;    the  audacity  of  it 
seemed  to  bring  so  near,  that  it  thrilled 
18 


JHIi  BRWEltiSTRMASURE 


her,  a  night  when,  for  another  Child's 
sake,  the  skies  had  rung  with  a  song 
that  has  echoed  always.  Benny's  fresh 
tones  disclosed,  with  careful  conversa- 
tional emphasis,  more  and  more  facts 
about  angels,  to  him  a  shade  less  real,  a 
shade  more  holy  than  his  mother. 

"To  you  in  David's  town  this  day 

Is  born  of  David's  line 
A  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  this  shall  be  the  sign — " 

was  elucidated  in  a  realistic  manner, 
and  the  child  proceeded  to  explain. 
"Thus  spoke  the  seraph  and  forth- 
19 


g^BE.T-TEl€iSTRiy\SI^ 

with  appeared  a  shining  throng  of  an- 
gels— praising  God — who  thus  ad- 
dressed their  joyful  song." 

An  atheist  would  have  got  an  impres- 
sion, hearing  him  tell  it,  that  the  boy 
had  seen  with  his  eyes  and  heard  with 
his  ears  what  he  related.  There  was  a 
silence  as  the  sturdy  tones  ended  and 
Benny's  eyes  gazed  on  into  the  heart  of 
the  fire,  as  if  they  saw  in  a  vision  the 
still  eastern  night,  the  shepherds  on  the 
hills,  the  white  flight  of  angels. 

"You  repeated  it  very  nicely,"  Mrs. 
Harding  said  softly,  and  put  her  mouth 
against  his  head  again.  "Now  you 
shall  have  yours." 

20 


The  big  eleven-year-old  girl  caught 
her  mother's  hand — a  hand  worn  with 
housework  and  sewing — and  held  it 
against  her  cheek. 

"  'Twas  the  night  before  Christmas, 
when  all  through  the  house,"  the  wom- 
an began,  and  went  on,  as  many  wom- 
en have  begun  and  gone  on  with  the 
charming  old  poem,  to  children  on 
Christmas  Eve.  The  fire  crackled  in 
the  pauses,  and  the  sparks  flew  up  the 
chimney  as  the  logs  fell  apart  with  gen- 
tle heaviness,  an  accompaniment  to  the 
swinging  sentences. 

"Now  just  one  more,  children  dear, 
and  you  really  must  go  to  bed.    It's  very 

21 


g^J3I:XTI-:iC^TRIij\SI^ 

late — look!  It's  almost  nine,"  and  the 
girl  and  the  boy  cried  out  together. 
"Oh,  the  Beasts!  The  Beasts!" 
They  pressed  against  her,  a  head  on 
either  shoulder,  and  held  her  hands  in 
theirs,  while  she  told  them  a  tale  of  a 
boy  in  a  German  forest  whose  father 
and  mother  were  so  poor  that  there  was 
not  enough  to  eat  in  the  house.  She  told 
them  how  he  lay  in  his  cot  on  Christ- 
mas Eve  and  heard  them  plan ;  how  he 
listened  as  they  divided  what  food  was 
left  into  three  portions  for  to-morrow's 
breakfast,  the  largest  for  the  boy;  how 
he  sobbed  to  himself  in  the  dark  as  he 
heard   them  arrange   to  kill   his   two 

22 


JHE  BliXTElCiSTRIiASURE 


friends,  the  old  horse  Friedel  and  the 
old  cow  Minna,  rather  than  let  them 
starve  to  death ;  how,  lying  awake  late 
in  the  night,  he  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  the  dear  horse  and  cow  stood  hun- 
gry in  the  barn,  on  their  last  night  of 
life;  how  he  stole  into  the  kitchen  and 
found  the  coarse  bread  and  the  milk 
that  were  saved  for  his  own  breakfast, 
and  carried  them  out  to  the  stable ;  how, 
as  he  came  to  the  door,  he  heard  strange 
hoarse  voices  speaking  low,  and  lis- 
tened and  found  that  it  was  Friedel  and 
Minna  talking  together;  how  then  he 
remembered  that  once  a  year,  at  mid- 
night on  Christmas  Eve,  dumb  beasts 

23 


may  find  speech,  in  memory  of  the 
night  when  the  Christ-child  lay  among 
beasts,  in  the  manger;  how  little  Hans 
listened  to  the  thin  old  horse  and  the 
hungry  old  cow  and  heard  them  griev- 
ing for  the  poverty  of  their  master  and 
mistress  and  heard  them  speak  of  the 
secret  which,  if  the  beasts  might  have 
speech  to  tell  it,  would  make  every- 
thing right;  how  Hans  went  in  boldly 
then  and  gave  the  animals  his  break- 
fast, and  asked  them  to  tell  him  the  se- 
cret; how  they  told  him,  in  unused, 
rusty  voices,  that  beneath  the  empty 
stall  of  the  stable  was  a  treasure  of  gold, 
buried  a  thousand  years  before  by  the 

24 


JHIi  BIvr-Tl-;l€iSTRi:/\Sl)Rl: 


Romans,  which  would  make  his 
mother  and  father  richer  than  they 
could  dream;  and  how  just  then  the 
bells  of  the  distant  village  rang  for 
Christmas  morning,  and  the  poor  beasts 
were  dumb  again,  and  Hans  went  back 
to  his  bed  and  waited  for  daylight  to 
tell  his  father  and  mother,  who  dug  for 
the  treasure  and  found  it  and  were 
happy  with  the  horse  and  cow,  and  rich 
ever  after. 

The  story  ended  and  the  children 
were  quiet,  as  if  listening,  thrilled,  to 
those  stammering  hoarse  tones  of  the 
good  brutes  in  the  chilly  stable. 

"Now,  chickens,  you  must  go  to  your 
25 


roosts,"  the  mother  broke  their  dream, 
and  her  words  ended  in  a  sigh.  "Fa- 
ther! it's  too  bad  to  have  him  left  out  of 
Christmas  Eve,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  agreed  Benny  sturdily. 
"Nobody  can  say  Peaceful  Was  the 
Night  'cept  father.  It's  too  bad  for  fa- 
ther he  had  to  go  to  the  thing-ma-jig's 
funeral;"  and,  being  Christmas  Eve, 
Benny  went  unreproved  for  the  de- 
scription of  his  great-uncle. 

"Father'll  be  home  before  morning, 
won't  he?"  asked  the  girl,  and  went  on. 
"Oh,  I  remember.  You  said  some  time 
in  the  night,  but  we  can't  tell  when, 
'cause  the  trains  get  late.  Well,  I  hope 
26 


JHE  BET-TElC^TRMAStJRE 


^ 


he'll  be  here  in  the  morning  when  we 

wake  up.    It  wouldn't  be   Christmas 

without  father;  would  it,  mother?" 

"I  can't  bear  to  have  him  out  so  late," 

.    the  little  woman  said,  and  her  tones 

j}\   /{'  were  troubled.  She  went  on  as  if  think- 

'AW ;-Ms  aloud — a  way  she  had  with  her  big 

'       babies.  "Father  isn't  well — he  ought  to 

go  South — I  wish  he  could  go,"  and 

Benny  answered  in  strong  baby  tones, 

"Oh,  he  can't  go,  mother.  We 
haven't  got  money  enoughs— you  said 
we  hadn't." 

"No,  dear,  we  haven't,"  she  sighed; 
and  the  girl  shook  her  mane  of  hair 
back  thoughtfully. 

27 


JHE  BliWElC^TRIiASURE 


"I  wish  I  could  find  a  lot  of  money 
like  Hans,  for  father,"  she  said. 

The  fascination  of  the  firelight  as  the 
children  lay  in  their  beds,  their  mother 
gone,  held  the  drowsy  eyes  open.  The 
girl,  the  more  aggressive,  the  more 
imaginative  of  the  two,  went  back,  with 
a  thought  working  its  way  in  her  mind, 
to  the  story  which  had  a  hold  on  both, 
the  story  of  how  dumb  brutes  may  talk 
once  a  year  on  Christmas  Eve. 

"Do  you  believe  it's  true,  Benny?" 
she  consulted  her  brother.  "Mother 
didn't  say  it  wasn't,  you  know." 

"Then  it's  true,  and  I  believe  it's 
true,"  said  Benny  stoutly.  "I'm  glad 
28 


JHK  BET-TElC^TRIi/\S[)Rl: 


they  can.  I  know  Nigger  would  enjoy 
a  talking.  He  looks  like  he  wanted  to 
talk  when  he  squeals,  and  he  squeals 
words  sometimes.  I  heard  him  say 
'corn  bread'  one  day." 

Alice  lifted  her  brown  head  from  the 
pillow  and  leaned  on  one  elbow  and 
stared  into  the  fire.  "Nigger's  out  in 
the  barn,"  she  reflected.  "Father  took 
Mr.  Jarvis'  horse  because  Nigger's  foot 
was  lame.  Benny — "  she  began  excit- 
edly, and  stopped. 

Benny  gave  an  enormous  yawn  and 
turned  his  heavy  yellow  head. 
"Whu-ut?"  he  inquired. 

"Don't  go  to  sleep,  Benny — listen!" 
29 


the  girl  begged.  "I've  got  an  idea — 
something  lovely,  really.  Why  can't  w^e 
go  to  the  stable  to-night — it's  Christ- 
mas Eve — and  listen  to  Nigger  talking, 
like  Hans  listened  to  Friedel  and 
Minna?  And  maybe  he'll  know  about 
some  treasure  and  we  could  get  lots  of 
money,  and  give  it  to  father  to  go  South 
with.  Mother  would  be  glad." 

The  boy's  sleepy  eyes  opened  and 
gazed  at  her.  "Wouldn't  it  be 
naughty?" 

As  happened  once  before  in  a  gar- 
den, "the  woman  tempted  him."  Benny 
was  swept  out  on  the  tide  of  his  sister's 
adventurous  spirit,  and  while  the  fire 
30 


THK  BET-TEl^STRIiASURl: 


Steamed  and  purred  an  undertone  they 
made  their  plans.  Very  nearly  were  the 
plans  shipwrecked  by  nature,  however, 
for,  as  they  waited  till  the  night  should 
be  older,  the  clock  ticked,  the  fire  sang 
a  lullaby,  and  the  children  fell  asleep. 

But  at  half-past  eleven  a  log  dropped 
noisily,  the  light  of  it  blazed  up  and 
the  adventurer-in-chief,  the  deed  to  be 
done  in  her  veins,  awakened.  It  needed 
all  her  energy  to  persuade  the  boy, 
numb  with  sleep,  that  sleep  was  not  the 
one  possibility  in  a  midnight  world. 
But  there  was  a  persistent  spirit  in  her, 
and  in  ten  minutes  two  muffled  little 
figures  crept  through  the  shadowy 
31 


house  and  out  over  the  white  lawn, 
misty  with  still-falling  snow,  and  up  the 
slope  to  the  door  of  the  stable. 


HERE    were    half-visible    foot- 
steps in  the  white  carpet  on  the 
|- — -— -  ground,  but  the  big  flakes  had 
'blurred    them,    the    children    did    not 
notice.    An  hour  before  a  man  had  hur- 
f^    ried  along  the  road  from  town,  a  power- 
ful man,  walking  fast.     As  he  walked 
he  spoke  to  himself  in  a  low  tone. 

"The     note     about     Pat     O'Hara's 
broken    leg   ought    to    take    him    three 
miles  out  of  his  way — it  ought  to  delay 
33 


g^J31>T-TEl€ST£Ii/\Sl^     ,,: 

him  an  hour.  Lucky  I  remembered 
where  the  horse  and  trap  would  be 
kept." 

He  passed  a  stream,  tinkling  silverly 
in  the  stillness  under  its  roof  of  ice  and 
snow.  He  halted  and  stared  down. 

"I  took  my  first  trout  in  that  hole," 
he  murmured,  and  swung  on. 

But  the  ghost  of  a  boy  had  caught  his 
arm  and  clung  to  him  and  went  with 
him  down  the  road.  He  could  not  shake 
the  ghost-boy  loose. 

"Doctor  Harding  took  you  home  to 
lunch  that  day,"  the  boy  whispered, 
"and  the  trout  was  cooked,  and  they 
made  an  event  of  it." 

34 


mi  BIjJTEl€2STRIi/\Sl)RE 


"Well,  what  of  that?"  the  man  an- 
swered the  memory  aloud.  "I'm  not  go- 
\  ing  to  hurt  Doctor  Harding,  am  I?" 
J)j\v:\^      "He  won't  give  up  what  he  has  set 
himself  to  guard." 

The  big  fellow  spoke  again  grimly, 
"He'll  have  to."  The  muscles  of  his 
bent  arm  tightened.  The  clinging 
ghost-boy  clutched  closer. 

"You  couldn't  hurt  him!  You 
couldn't  do  it  in  this  place,  where  the 
good  years  of  your  life  were  passed. 
You  know  every  foot  of  this  ground — 
every  foot  of  it  has  a  happy  association. 
YouVe  played  hide-and-seek  in  that 
barn  of  the  Hardings,  and  gone  to  sleep 

35 


in  the  hay-loft.   Can  you  go  there  and 
take  money  from  him?" 
\  The  man's  hand  flew  out.   "It's  not 

r"  his  money — I  wouldn't  rob  him.    It's 

money  that  ought  to  be  mine — it  be- 
longs to  Sidney  Maxwell,  my  cousin, 
A'  and     it's      Maxwell     money — family 

money.  They  make  millions  a  year — 
I'm  one  of  them  and  I've  nothing — 
worse  than  nothing.  I  ought  to  be  as 
rich  as  he — it's  a  drop  in  the  bucket  to 
what  I  ought  to  have." 

'Whose  fault  is  it  that  you  haven't 
it?"  the  insistent  whisper  came.  "You 
threw  away  your  chance." 

"I  know  it — I  was  a  fool — I  couldn't 

36 


be  controlled.  But  I  was  young,  five 
years  ago.  If  my  father  had  lived,  my 
uncle  wouldn't  have  turned  me  out.  It 
was  Sidney  who  was  down  on  me — re- 
liable, satisfactory  Sidney,  who  never 
had  a  temptation — never  made  a  mis- 
take— never  threw  away  his  birthright 
for  a  mess  of  pottage.  He's  gone  from 
success  to  success  without  an  effort." 
The  man  groaned.  "I  hate  him!"  he 
muttered.  "I'm  his  flesh  and  blood,  and 
he  never  throws  a  thought  to  me.  We 
had  our  Christmas  trees  together,  and 
played  with  our  rocking-horses  on  the 
rug  before  the  fire.  He  was  kind  as  a 
big  brother  to  me  then.    But  now,  the 

37 


jmi3IiT-TElC(STRIi/\Sl^ 

ends  of  the  earth  are  no  farther  apart 
than  he  and  I — Carl  Maxwell,  my 
chances  all  gone,  a  failure,  a  pauper." 
He  shuddered.  "This  night  a  thief. 
Ah!"  The  syllable  snapped  sharply 
and  he  threw  out  his  powerful  arms. 
"No,  my  chances  are  not  all  gone — 
there's  one  left."  He  struck  his  breast 
with  his  hand  where  the  letter  lay  in- 
side. "My  one  chance  of  beginning 
new  is  this  night.  I'll  get  that  money 
which  ought  to  be  mine,  and  to-morrow 
I'll  be  ofif  for  China,  and  take  up  Bill 
Bacon's  offer,  and  be  an  honest  man, 
by  Heaven,  a  successful  one  this  time! 
I've  got  it  in  me,  and  I've  learned  my 

38 


JHK  BliWElC^TRIiASORE 


lesson.  My  God  I  I've  learned  my  les- 
son. I'll  work  hard  and  earn  my  life 
and  I'll  send  back  this  three  thousand  to 
Sidney  Maxwell  with  my  first  savings. 
I  will.  Jove — it's  a  straight  road — it's 
a  chance  in  a  million  for  a  man  at  the 
last  gasp.  I'd  be  a  cowardly  fool  not  to 
take  it — and  after  all  I'm  just  borrow- 
ing— not  stealing.  I'll  send  it  back  sure 
as  fate." 

The  sophistry  which  has  soothed 
many  consciences  was  good  enough  for 
this  desperate  one.  Something  which 
felt  like  self-respect,  the  unused  sensa- 
tion of  a  hope,  sent  him  springing  over 
the  two  miles  from  the  railway  town  to 
39 


THIi  BF.WElC^T«i:/\S(JRE 


Fairfield,  and  through  dim,  well-re- 
membered lanes  to  Fairfield  parsonage. 

He  found  his  way  readily  down  the 
shadowy  drive  to  the  stable,  and  the 
door,  left  unlocked  for  the  master, 
opened  at  a  touch.  The  horse  stamped 
in  his  stall  in  the  dark,  and  Maxwell 
went  to  him  and  spoke  quietly,  and  he 
was  still. 

There  was  an  empty  stall  next,  where 
would  be  put  the  other  horse  arriving 
with  Doctor  Harding,  and  here  the 
man  stowed  himself.  When  the  clergy- 
man led  the  animal  to  the  opening, 
then,  while  his  hands  were  busy,  would 
be  the  time.  He  might  have  to  strug- 
40 


THE  BETTElC^TRIiASUl^ 


gle,  to  knock  him  down  perhaps — he  set 
his  teeth  and  drew  in  a  breath.  It  was 
not  pleasant  to  knock  down  such  a 
friend,  but  it  had  to  be  done,  and  he 
would  be  careful  not  to  injure  him.  A 
trained  boxer  knows  how. 

He  sat  drawn  together,  in  the  thick 
straw,  waiting.  Nigger,  in  the  stall 
close  by,  stamped  uneasily  and  put  his 
black  nose  through  the  opening  above 
and  sniffed  and  blew.  He  could  see  the 
horse's  eyes  gleaming  in  the  darkness, 
and  feel  his  warm  breath.  So  settled 
was  his  mind  on  the  deed  to  come  that 
he  dropped  into  a  sleep,  comfortably 
wrapped  in  the  straw.  Yet  his  nerves 
41 


rHK  BIvr-TEl€iSTRi:/\SURE 


were  alert,  and  he  sat  up  quickly,  on 
}^  guard  at  a  light  sound  from  the  outside. 

What  was  it?    Even  allowing  for  the 
i?  snow-covered  road  it  was  not  the  sound 

of  wheels — and,  while  he  wondered,  the 
side  door  of  the  building,  which  faced 
him  as  he  sat  hidden,  opened.  A  late 
moon  had  risen,  making  the  landscape 
outside  as  clear  as  day,  and  against  the 
white  ground  he  saw,  astonished,  the 
figures  of  two  children  sharply  sil- 
houetted. 


42 


HE  big  girl  held  the  boy  by  the 
hand    as     they    peered    in.     The 
man,  unprepared  for  this  compli- 
cation, watched  them,  troubled,  uncer- 
tain, and  immediately  the  boy  spoke  in 
a  full,  sweet  voice. 

"He's  not  talkin',  Alice,"  the  boy 
said.  "Let's  go  back — I'd  rather  go  to 
bed." 

But  the  girl  stepped  forward,  warily 
poised,  yet  determined,  and  drew  her 
brother.     "Maybe  he  doesn't  know  it's 

43 


"^i. 


'  '^  THIS  13FXTKl€2STRIi/\S()RE  ■' 


/  US,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want  to  go  back 

''^  '  till  I  see."  She  dropped  the  boy's  hand 
and  was  at  the  door  of  the  box-stall. 
"Nigger,"  she  whispered,  "Nigger," 
and  the  horse  whinnied  and  turned  his 
head  toward  her. 

The  boy  had  followed,  stumbling 
across  the  floor.  "Maybe  he  doesn't 
know  it's  Christmas,"  he  suggested. 
"Let's  sing  a  carol  so  he'll  remember." 
The  man  in  the  stall  listened.  In  a 
low  tone,  because  it  was  a  mysterious 
business  they  were  on,  the  two  sang: 

"Silent  night,  hallowing  dawn. 
Far  and  wide  breaks  the  morn, 
44 


Breaks  the  day  when  the  Saviour  of 

men 
Bringing  pardon  and  healing  again, 
^  Holy,  harmless  and  undefiled — Com- 
eth a  little  child." 

"Pardon  and  healing!" 

They  sang  it  and  they  were  silent, 
waiting.  Nigger  sniffed  softly,  then 
whinnied. 

Benny's  slow  speech  began  coax- 
ingly: 

"I  had  a  little  pony 
His  name  was  Dapple  Gray; 
I  lent  him  to  a  lady — " 

45 


He  halted,  listening.  "I  thought 
maybe  he'd  like  that  because  it's  about 
a  horse.  I  thought  it  would  interest 
him,"  Benny  explained,  and  proceeded 
as  if  by  force  of  inertia: 

"Goosey,  goosey  gander, 
Whither  do  you  wander 
Up-stairs — " 

Alice  interrupted.  "That  hasn't  got 
a  single  thing  to  do  with  Christmas, 
Benny." 

"But  it's  on  the  next  page,"  Benny 
argued  stolidly. 

Alice  was  firm.    "It  isn't  the  right 

46 


JHK  BtWElC^TRIiASURE 


kind  of  poetry — it  ought  to  be  sort  of 
churchy  and  religious,  because  Nig- 
ger's a  clergyman's  horse  and  it's 
Christmas  Eve." 

"Maybe  he's  afraid,"  she  said,  in  a 
disappointed  tone,  yet  still  hopeful. 
"Benny,  say  the  verse  about  'Fear  not' 
to  him — that  might  make  him  not  be 
afraid." 

The  unseen  audience  listened  as 
Benny,  persuadingly,  as  man  to  man, 
recited  a  hymn  to  Nigger. 

"  Tear  not'—" 

urged  Benny — 

47 


™BtT-TElC^TRIii\Sl^ 

> 

"  'Fear  not,'  said  He,  for  mighty  dread  -m 

Had  seized  their  troubled  mind,  f^ 

'Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring  ^3^ 

To  you  and  all  mankind.'  "  ^ 


"Glad  tidings  of  great  joy!"  The 
young  man  in  the  straw  sat  quiet  and 
listened. 

Whatever  encouragement  for  beasts 
might  be  in  a  Christmas  hymn,  Benny 
meant  to  extend  it  to  Nigger.  Unhur- 
ried, with  the  sleepy  note  of  a  bird 
going  to  roost,  his  piping  voice  plodded 
on,  telling  a  tale  which  he  did  not 
doubt.  With  the  full  angel  song  he 
ended: 

48 


JHIi  BlvWElCiSTRIiASURL 


"All  glory  be  to  God  on  high, 
And  on  the  earth  be  peace. 

Good-will  henceforth  from  Heaven  to 
men 
Begin  and  never  cease." 

"Peace!  Good-will!" 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  empty  stall, 
but  the  children  did  not  hear  it.  From 
a  mile  away  down  the  road  came  faintly 
a  sound  of  hoof-beats,  and  Nigger  blew 
out  an  agitated  breath  and  whinnied 
again  gently.  It  was  very  quiet.  Alice 
and  Benny,  standing  patient,  thrilled 
suddenly  as  a  strange,  hoarse  voice  is- 
sued from  the  darkness. 

49 


n-. 


THIi  BFXTKl?^TRIi/\S()RE 


"Merry  Christmas,  children  1"  the 
voice  said. 

The  girl  clutched  the  boy's  shoulder. 
"He's  talkin'— Nigger's  talkin',"  Ben- 
ny announced,  interested  but  imper- 
turbed. 

In  his  perspective  a  beast's  speaking 
was  no  larger  marvel  than  the  wonders 
of  every  day — sunrise  and  sunset,  and 
stars  and  tides,  and  it  may  be  the  un- 
warped  vision  of  youth  saw  things  in 
not  unjust  proportion.  But  the  girl  was 
shivering  with  joy.  She  answered  the 
unearthly  tone  with  sweet,  excited  ea- 
gerness. 

"Merry    Christmas,    Nigger,"    she 

50 


JHK  BFXTElC^TRIiASORE 


said,  and  added  tremulously,  "I'm  so 
glad  you  really  can  talk — it  must  seem 
nice  after  being  dumb." 

"Yes,  it's  nice,"  Nigger  responded 
civilly,  but  he  seemed  preoccupied.  He 
went  on  with  promptness.  "You  must 
go  back  to  the  house,  children,  at  once. 
You'll  catch  cold." 

It  was  queer  to  have  their  own  horse 
giving  them  orders,  yet  the  tone  was  of 
authority, 

"But,  Nigger,"  Alice  pleaded,  "we 
want  to  talk  to  you — we  want  to  ask  you 
some  questions." 

It  seemed  almost  as  if  Nigger  had 
stopped  to  listen  to  something.  They 
51 


-^.'■C' 


g^J3I:XTElC^TRli/\S(^ 

did  not  notice  the  pad-pad  of  hoofs  still 
a  long  way  ofif. 

"What  questions?"  the  hoarse  voice 
demanded.   "Be  quick!" 

Alice  began,  but  choked  with  excite- 
ment, and  Benny  plunged  to  her  relief, 
collected  and  deliberate. 

"We'd  like  some  hidden  treasure,"  he 
explained.  "Treasure  is  money.  To 
send  father  South  where  it's  warm, 
'cause  he's  sick.  We  want  you  to  tell  us 
where  to  get  some  treasure  for  father." 

Nigger  appeared  to  be  struck  back  to 
dumbness  by  this  simple  request,  for  no 
word  came  from  the  stall,  only  another 
of  the  soft  deep  inhalations — he  had  re- 


...;^ 


JUIi  BIi.T-TEl€iSTRI-:i\S()RE 


f 


lapsed  into  beasthood.   Yet  once  more 
the  weird  tones  spoke. 

"I  can't  tell  you  where  to  find  any 
treasure,"  they  said,  "because  there  isn't 
any  buried  around  here.  But  if  you're 
good  children  and  go  straight  into  the 
house,  then  your  father  is  going  to  have 
enough  money  to  go  South — this  winter 
or  next.   Now  run  quickly." 


0^:^' 


V  -^'^ 


HE  stable  was  quiet;  small  feet 
scurried  over  the   snow  toward     ^ 
the    house;    the    door    was    left 
standing  open,  and  strong  moonlight     ^^ 
poured  through  it  and  illumined  the 
place.    When  Doctor  Harding  drove 
in,  the  figure  of  a  man  stood  black  in  the 
patch  of  brightness. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  asked  cheerily. 
The  man  answered.    "It's  a  friend — 
Carl  Maxwell." 

54 


-    -^HK  BliT^TEirSTRMASORE 


"Carl    Maxwell!"    the   clergyman's 
voice  had  a  tone  of  unbelief.  "What  do 
you  mean — how  can  it  be  Carl  Max- 
well?" 
|4  The  man  swung  forward.   "Look  at 

[o^^  nie,"  he  said,  and  pulled  away  his  hat. 
Harding  looked  searchingly,  and  with 
a  quick  movement  set  on  the  floor  the 
bag  he  held,  and  caught  the  other's 
hand. 

"My  boy,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he 
said.  "Help  me  unharness.  We  must 
get  a  fire  and  something  to  eat  as  soon 
as  possible." 

As  if  it  were  a  custom  to  find  men 
waiting  in  the  stable  at  one  A.  M.,  Doc- 

55 


^raj3i>r-TEiC^TRi-;/\s(^ 

tor  Harding  talked  of  the  horse  and 
the  harness  and  the  roads  as  they  un- 
buckled the  frozen  leather,  and  the 
man's  fingers  slipped  into  the  once  fa- 
miliar business,  and  his  ears  listened  to 
the  once  familiar  voice.  Ten  minutes  of 
swift  work  and  the  harness  hung  on  its 
hooks,  and  the  horse  stood  cared  for 
and  blanketed,  in  its  stall.  Maxwell 
swung  across  the  stable  and  lifted  the 
small  black  bag. 

"I'll  take  that,  Carl,"  the  clergyman 
spoke  quietly. 

"No — let  me  carry  it  for  you,"  the 
younger  man  threw  back,  holding  to  it 
firmly. 

56  .'': 


( 


> 


JHIi  BETFElCiSTRIiASORE 


There  was  a  second's  hesitation; 
Harding's  fingers  loosened;  he  turned 
to  the  door;  Carl  Maxwell  held  the  bag 
in  his  hands. 

Down  the  slope  Harding  led  the 
way,  and  through  the  orchard  vividly 
black  and  white  with  moonlight  and 
shadow.  Suddenly  he  faced  about — the 
footsteps  behind  him  had  stopped — he 
stared  through  the  zigzag  of  bare 
branches  and  deep  shadows — where 
was  the  man? 

"Carl!"  he  called,  and  out  of  a 
splash  of  blackness  ten  feet  back  stirred 
the  figure. 

"All  right,  Doctor,"  Maxwell's  voice 

57 


V  ^I^I3I>T-TEl€iSTRI-:/\S(m, 

answered.  "I  stopped  to  see  if  the  seat 
I  built  in  the  Queen  apple-tree  was  still 
there." 

A  low  light  shone  in  the  study  as  the 
two  mounted  the  steps  of  the  side  pi- 
azza,  and  the  clergyman  slipped  his 
key  into  the  lock. 
\  He  threw  open  the  door  and  stood 

aside  to  let  his  guest  enter.    The  man 
4^    '  halted,  and  made  an  uncertain  move- 

ment backward.  Then  he  stepped,  in- 
side. In  a  moment  the  light  was  turned 
up,  the  fire  was  blazing,  the  room  hung 
with  cheerfulness.  Maxwell  stared 
about  it,  at  the  books,  at  the  papers,  at 
the   worn   furniture.    The   clergyman 

58 


•=<n 


JHE  BIi.T-TEl€i^TRIi/\SURE 


watched  him  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  to  a  tray. 

"I  don't  know  about  you,  Carl,  but 
■  I  m  hungry."   He  held  out  a  plate  of 

sandwiches. 

The  young  fellow  set  the  bag  down 
hurriedly  and  stretched  out  his  hand. 
He  was  shivering,  and  he  looked 
starved.  Then  the  hand  dropped.  His 
teeth  chattered,  and  he  stared  blankly 
into  the  clergyman's  face. 

"I  came  here  to  rob  you,"  he  said. 

Harding  gazed  at  him;  his  glance 
wandered  to  the  black  bag;  he  turned 
his  back  and  bent  over  the  coffee,  bub- 
bling above  an  alcohol  lamp.  Maxwell 

59 


fet 


THIi  BI'XTKl€iSTRIi/\Sl)Rli: 


P< 


regarded  him  miserably.  Harding 
lifted  his  head  with  a  smile. 

"We'll  talk  that  over  later,  Carl,"  he 
said.  "Sit  by  the  fire — you're  cold. 
And  drink  this  coffee." 

The  man  sat  down.  The  hot  coffee 
was  almost  at  his  mouth,  when  he 
looked  up  into  the  other's  face. 

"How  do  you  know  I  won't  take  the 
money?"  he  asked.  "I  could." 

The  parson  laughed.  He  put  a 
friendly  hand  on  the  deep  shoulder  and 
patted  it,  as  if  the  man  were  a  child. 
"Well,  yes,  you  could,"  he  said. 
"Drink  your  coffee,  Carl." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  man  stood  be- 
60 


nUi  BIlT-TEiriSTRl-:/\S()RE 


fore  the  fire  and  told  his  story.  He  fin- 
ished the  recital  with  a  look  of  bitter- 
ness in  his  eyes. 

"I  believe  I'm  a  fool,"  he  said.  "The 
money  means  the  chance  of  my  life  for 
a  start — and  I've  no  other  chance.  I 
meant  to  take  it,  till  the  children  came, 
and  then  I  lost  my  nerve.  Alice  has 
grown  a  lot.  I  taught  her  her  first  word 
— do  you  remember?  I  didn't  do  the 
beast  act  entirely  to  get  rid  of  them.  I 
did  it  so  they  wouldn't  be  disappointed. 
I'm  a  fool.  I'd  planned  the  thing  and 
I  ought  to  have  put  it  through.  I  could 
have  gone  to  China,  and  in  a  year  I'd 
have  sent  back  the  money — I'd  have 
6i 


'-'->f 


THIi  BIi.T-TElC^TRIi/\SURE 


had  a  clear  conscience  and  a  grip  on  ^^._^ 
/  life  such  as  I've  never  had  before.  But     W 


it's  beyond  me  now." 


^  >  The  man  looked  down  suddenly  at 

his  dingy  overcoat.   He  smiled  a  queer 
smile  at  the  clergyman. 

"I  happened  to  think  of  how  they 
used  to  have  us  sing  Silent  Night  be- 
fore we  had  our  Christmas  tree,  and  of 
the  velvet  clothes  I  wore  one  year,"  he 
explained.  "And  now,"  he  lifted  the 
skirt  of  his  coat,  "to  be  talking  about 
Christmas  trees — and  carols.  I'm  just 
one  of  the  submerged.  I'll  go  now, 
Doctor.  I  might  as  well  go.  I  had  my 
chance  and  threw  it  away  for  sentiment. 
62 


X 

H 


u^ 


THE  BIi.T-TElCiSTRI-:/\S()RE 


I'll  go  now."    He  held  out  his  hand. 
"It  won't  hurt  you  to  shake  hands." 
^       The  clergyman  did  not  stir.    "Carl, 
^iQ^;I've  got  something  to  tell  you  about 
^^.f"  your  cousin  Sidney,"  he  said. 
'  3       The  man  scowled.   "I  don't  want  to 
\)  hear  it,"   he   shot   through   his    teeth. 
^  '    "When  I  saw  him  walking  with  you 
H       to-day  in  his  furred  overcoat  and  his 
J        prosperity  I  wanted  to  kill  him.  He's 
forgotten  I'm  alive.  It's  nothing  to  him 
that  I'm  strangling — in  the  depths." 

"That's  where  you're  mistaken,"  re- 
plied Doctor  Harding  in  a  quiet  but 
positive  tone. 


63 


AXWELL    lifted    his    chin    and 
threw  at  the  clergyman  a  glance 
like   a  blow.     Harding  went  on 
at  ease. 

"It's  very  much  to  him.  When  you 
saw  him  talking  to  me  to-day,  w^hat  do 
you  suppose  he  w^as  talking  about? 
You.  When  the  man  in  the  stable  just 
now  answered  in  your  name,  I  felt  as  if 
Heaven  had  reached  down  and  picked 
you  up  from  somewhere  and  put  you  in 
my  hands  as  an  answer  to  what  Sidney 

64 


•<^ 


Maxwell  said.  He  told  me  that  Christ- 
mas never  came  but  the  thought  of  you 
was  with  him ;  that  when  his  own  boys 
played  with  their  toys  around  their  tree 
he  remembered  always  how  you  and  he 
had  played  together;  that  he  had  tried 
in  vain  to  find  you;  that  it  was  a  con- 
stant grief  that  he  and  his  father  had 
judged  you  harshly;  that  he  would  give 
his  fortune  to  know  where  you  are  and 
make  things  right." 

As  the  man  listened,  defiance  melted 
out  of  him;  he  did  not  answer  or  look 
up.  The  clergyman  went  on. 

"You  see  what  child's  play  it  seemed 
to  me  when  you  spoke  of  stealing  three 


m^M^^^y^-^-^ 


g^J3I:XTEl€STRIi/\S(^ 

thousand  dollars,  with  the  Maxwell 
millions  waiting.  Not  that  it  would 
have  been  possible  in  any  case,"  he 
added  quickly.  "You  thought  you 
could  do  it,  but  you  never  could — 
never." 

"Perhaps  I  couldn't,"  the  man  said 
brokenly.  "I  meant  to — I  don't  know 
what  stopped  me." 

"The  Lord,"  Harding  answered 
tersely.  "It  isn't  the  first  time  He  has 
made  children  His  messengers." 

Maxwell   lifted   his   eyes   dreamily, 

like  a  man  who  had  been  unconscious 

and  who  was  coming  slowly  back  to  a 

world  too  good  to  be  true.   "I — I  used 

66 


HI:  BIiXTEir;^TRI-:/\S()RE 


to  believe  those  things,"  he  said.  "I'd 
like  to,  now.  I've  been  a  long  way 
down.  But  I've  never  liked  it.  I've — 
been  unhappy.  It  doesn't  seem  possible 
that  I'm  to  have  a  chance.  I  was  com- 
ing here  to  drown  myself  in  Meadow 
Brook — I  thought  I  was  at  the  end  of 
the  rope.  That  was  my  plan  this  after- 
noon. And  then  I  heard  you  and  Sid- 
ney— and  I  was  glad  to  get  a  chance  to 
live.  I'm  too  strong  to  die  easily.  I 
think — I  think  it's  in  me  yet  to  work 
hard  and  make  a  place  for  myself.  I 
think  so.  I  never  enjoyed  being  scum — 
only  you  know  I  always  went  headlong 
whichever  way  I  started,  and  it  was  the 

67 


THK  Blvr-TEl€;STRi:/\S()RE 


same  with  the  bad  life  I've  been  living. 
I  can't  believe  I've  been  faced  about 
— in  a  minute." 

The  clergyman  had  pushed  the  man 
into  a  deep  chair;  the  firelight  washed 
a  friendly  vagueness  over  the  shabby 
clothes  and  over  his  face,  molding  now 
into  new  lines  under  a  crisis.  His  eyes 
lifted  to  his  friend's  with  a  dazed  gaze 
which  had  lost  bitterness.  Doctor 
Harding,  standing  over  him,  laid  a 
calm  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"My  lad,"  he  spoke  gently,  "it  ap- 
pears to  me  that  going  into  wrong-do- 
ing is  like  going  into  a  tunnel  that  leads 
downhill  to  darkness.  At  every  step  the 
68 


walking  gets  harder,  and  the  air  gets 
worse,  and  it's  dirtier  and  more  unin- 
teresting. And  all  the  time  all  you  have 
to  do  is  to  face  about,  and  you  see  the 
sunlight. 

"Of  course  it's  not  simple  getting 
back — I  know  that.  Sure  as  fate  you'll 
bark  your  shins,  and  stagger  into  holes, 
and  fall  down,  and  maybe  get  discour- 
aged. But  Heavens,  man!  What's  that, 
when  you  see  daylight,  and  see  you're 
getting  to  it!  What's  more,  you'll  see 
the  faces  of  friends  you  didn't  know  you 
had,  waiting  for  you — they  were  there 
all  the  time  and  you  wouldn't  look  at 
them — you  were  facing  the  wrong  way. 

69 


* 


^^J3E.T.TEl€2STRIi/\Sl^ 

"Of  course  a  poor  soul  may  wander 
so  far  into  the  depths  that  he's  beyond 
seeing  the  light — that's  the  awful  dan- 
ger." The  clergyman  sighed.  "But 
even  then  a  hand  stronger  than  your 
own  will  pull  you  out,  if  you'll  trust  to 
it.  However" — his  tired  face  bright- 
ened— "however,  you're  not  in  that 
case,  Carl.  You've  swung  about,  and 
sunshine  and  friends  are  waiting  for 
you — a  clean  life — a  man's  work — a 
place  in  the  world.  It's  wonderful  how 
much  less  bad  a  bad  situation  usually  is 
than  we  think.  This  afternoon  you 
were  going  to  kill  yourself;  you  were 
saved  from  that  by  the  hope  of  a  crime; 
70 


* 


.r-"^!' 


4r  \ 


JHE  BIi.Tra€iSTRIi/\S(IRE 


then  two  babies  spoke  a  message  and 
you  listened  to  it  and  faced  about. 
That's  the  secret,  to  face  about,  to  face 
right." 

Like  drops  of  a  strong  cordial  the 
words  struck  hot  shafts  into  Maxwell. 
"A  clean  life — a  man's  work — a  place 
in  the  world." 

He  felt  with  a  shock  the  strength  and 
the  will  to  get  these  things.  The  worn 
man  whose  inspired  eyes  burned  him, 
who  stood  for  a  force  beyond  either  of 
them,  had  poured  strength  and  will  into 
him.  He  threw  out  his  arms,  drew  a 
quick  breath,  and  rose  to  his  feet  reso- 
lutely. 

71 


■P  ir 

^%. 

9 

■^  v  •*  -v 

Jlili  BliT-TElC^TRIiASlJRE 


"Lord  helping  me,  I'll  do  it,"  he  said. 

"That's  the  way  to  go  at  the  business,*' 
Harding  said,  his  face  glowing  with 
enthusiasm.  "  You'll  do  it,  that  way." 
And  with  that  the  clock  in  the  hall 
struck  four,  and  from  up-stairs  there  was 
suddenly  an  eruption  and  a  descent  of 
barbarians.  Alice  and  Benny,  mysteri- 
ously warned  in  a  dream  of  their  father's 
arrival,  came  down  upon  him,  like  a 
wolf  on  the  fold,  and  all  but  tore  him  limb 
from  limb  with  stress  of  affection,  and 
then,  all  at  once,  aware  of  the  stranger, 
they  were  shy  and  lapsed  into  silence. 
But  Doctor  Harding  took  his  girl's 
hand  and  put  it  into  Carl  Maxwell's, 

72 


->V' 


cTHIi  BK.ra-:i?^Tra:/\si)RE 


**rve  brought  home  an  old  friend, 
AUce,"  he  said.  "Wish  him  a  Merry 
Christmas,  my  dear." 

And  AHce  smiled  and  said  the  words, 
while  Benny,  strangling  his  father,  rein- 
forced the  greeting  with  full,  slow  tones. 

"Merry  Christmas,  old  frien' — an'  a 
Happy  New  Year,"  said  the  deliberate 
Benny. 

Harding,  hung  with  children,  loosened 
a  hand  to  pat  the  man's  shoulder.  His 
eyes  were  bright  with  the  vision  of  the 
pure  in  heart,  who  see  God  in  mankind. 

"Benny's  hit  it,"  he  said.  "That's 
what  we  all  wish  you,  and  what's  com- 
ing, Carl — a  happy  New  Year!" 


F 


i>- 


m^:      '.ACT 


